


on second approach

by Addison R (beyond_belief)



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Airplane Sex, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Happy Ending, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Some Plot, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28216746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Addison%20R
Summary: Pete Mitchell is the president of a successful aviation company, a job inherited from his father. When threats start to roll in, the board hires Tom Kazansky as his bodyguard.
Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 13
Kudos: 52
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	on second approach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Carly - I actually started this as a treat for you in 2019 but it grew much longer than anticipated so I hoped you'd be asking for it again this year.

"I really, really do not need a bodyguard," is the first thing Mitchell says to him. 

Not even directly to him, but to Mike Metcalf, who'd been the one to hire Tom. "The Board of Trustees says you do," Metcalf says to Mitchell. To Tom, he says, "Don't mind Pete, he can be an asshole."

"I'm well aware, Sir," Tom replies. "You may not know, but Captain Mitchell and I have met before. In the Gulf."

"I see you partnered up with one of those private security outfits," Mitchell says, actually to him this time. He's wearing navy slacks and a white button-down with a blue tie and his hair is impeccable. He looks almost entirely different from how Tom remembers seeing him last; the sheen of private sector money in every crisp line of his shirt.

"Less like _partnered_ , more like _I own_."

Metcalf is already moving towards the hotel suite doors. "I'll leave you to get reacquainted, then. Pete, you can't scare this one off, so don't try."

"Aye-aye, Mikey," Mitchell says mockingly, and then the door closes with a solid click and Metcalf is gone, leaving the two of them alone. Tom leans against the door, folding his arms and blocking the one exit. Mitchell grins, then looks Tom up and down, his gaze almost mocking. "Can't seem to convince the Board that I can look after myself."

"I read the file. You do go to a lot of the dark corners of the world, where terrible things could happen."

Mitchell laughs at that, then seems to abandon this line of argument and walks to the desk, where a neat stack of manila folders and a leather portfolio lie on the dark wood. A briefcase is open on the chair. "I hope you enjoy listening in on development meetings," Mitchell says, as he moves paperwork into the briefcase. "A lot of boardrooms, even if they are in dark corners."

"You won't even know I'm there," Tom allows with a partial smile. 

Mitchell hums for a second. His eyes are almost dark at this angle. "Hard for me to overlook you anywhere, Ice."

*

He's not wrong about the endless parade of boardrooms. In the first three weeks, Tom learns more about the civilian aviation industry than he'd learned in his forty-two years before now. Most of the work is in the main Mitchell Aviation offices, but he accompanies Pete to New York City for three days, Atlanta for one, London for nearly a week, and finally to Rome.

The hotel they're in looks ancient and crumbling from the outside, but modern inside, and Mitchell's itinerary lists the majority of his meetings with Italian stockholders, aeronautics experts, and something marked down only as "space race" as being held in the corridor of meeting rooms on the second floor. 

Sometimes, Tom lingers outside the rooms. But most of the time, he stands against whatever wall is behind Mitchell's chair, looking from unoccupied corner to unoccupied corner, feigning ignorance of everyone else in the room except when Pete looks down at whatever paperwork or computer is in front of him, and the line of his neck distracts Tom from his pretend indifference for a moment. In those seconds he remembers the hunger in Pete's gaze, that afternoon on the aircraft carrier, where there was no room for anything and even less time for it. 

Then he comes back to the present and resumes staring into middle distance while Mitchell and the rest of the suits discuss parts orders and chemical compositions. Pete's smart, Tom knew that already, but he can discuss every millimeter of every aircraft Mitchell Aviation has ever produced, right down to the circuit boards. Tom can't help but listen when Pete's had enough of the shareholder complaints, and is ripping their arguments to shreds one very sharp point at a time. 

"That was quite the display today," Tom says in the elevator, returning Mitchell to his suite after the day's meetings have ended. 

Pete leans back against the wall and loosens his tie. "What, the part where I said I didn't give a fuck about saving eight dollars per wheel or the part where I corrected the guy from Telespazio on the fuel mix?"

"Both." The elevator doors open, displaying the fifth floor and the ornate mirror on the wall across from them. In the silver surface, Mitchell looks tired, dark shadows suddenly all the more apparent under his eyes. Tom doesn't look at himself. 

"That guy was an idiot." Pete swipes the keycard for his room, but Tom goes in first, just in case. The window is slightly ajar. That wasn't how they'd left it, and he motions for Pete to keep behind him as he checks the few rooms contained in the space. All are empty, clean, and perfectly organized. 

"Must have been the maid," Pete says. He puts his briefcase down on the desk chair and yawns. "The breeze is nice."

"You going out again tonight?"

"No. I've got specs to read, thought I'd order room service." He cocks his head, his gaze suddenly sharp. "Stay and have dinner with me."

_I shouldn't _, is what Tom knows he should say. Probably what Pete is expecting him to say. "As long as you don't neglect your homework," he says instead.__

__"I would never." Pete grins, the expression of a man who skipped all sorts of homework as a child._ _

__"You can tell me how you got to be running this company while we eat," Tom adds, because that at least keeps this somewhat in the realm of business. " _And_ what happened in Dubai. In your own words, Slick, not what I got from the Board of Directors."_ _

__"Agreed." Pete slips out of his jacket, then removes his tie. "I think the menu is on the table over there, figure out what you want to get."_ _

__Tom decides to keep his own suit jacket on for now. Pete goes into the bathroom, and he picks up the room service menu. He's half expecting it to be somewhat standard Italian fare, aimed at tourists who won't venture out of the hotel in search of dinner- and finds instead options that read like this is a Michelin-starred restaurant._ _

__Tom's really never cared much about food; he figures that's what happens when you eat chow-hall stuff on a good day and MREs on a worse one. Since separating from the Navy he's eaten a lot of room service club sandwiches, since those are basically the same wherever he goes._ _

__But there's no club sandwich on this menu, so he'll have to settle for one of the actual dinner items. "I'll get the rosemary beef tenderloin thing," he tells Pete when Pete comes out of the bathroom, now minus his dress shirt, smelling of soap and with his face clearly damp._ _

__"Rosemary beef tenderloin thing," Pete repeats, and plucks the menu from Tom's hand._ _

____

*

"Dubai," Tom says, waving his fork at Mitchell. "Tell me."

Pete rolls his eyes and sets his own fork down on his plate. "It wasn't anything."

"Must have been enough of something that your Board is willing to pay what I charge," Tom points out. "And personally, I am not cheap."

"Never said you were."

Tom gives him a serious look. He knows what Pete's doing; he's been on this side of it before. "Stop flirting, Mav, and tell me what happened in Dubai."

"We were in a convoy from the airport," Pete says, the animated grin sliding from his face in an instant. "It was me, Metcalf, two of the guys from engineering in one car. We'd flown over with a team from Boeing's New York office, since it was a joint venture. They were in two other cars - they'd brought more people, being a bigger company and all."

Tom indicates that he gets this, and to get to the point. 

"There was dust storm stirring up, so visibility was degrading. Our driver slowed down, probably the shamal winds. Said later he'd stopped for a traffic light. The kidnappers probably faked it, using the storm for cover."

"Kidnappers."

"Would-be kidnappers." Pete gestures for the wine bottle. Tom slides it over. "They pulled up alongside in this beat up van. Their guns were nearly rusted. I was closest to the door they opened, so they just hit me across the head with what was probably an AK once before it got beat to shit by time."

He lifts a hand to his hair, and after a few seconds of searching, parts it with his fingers. Tom sees a thin red line he hadn't noticed before now, almost entirely covered by Pete's hair. "So I had blood running all down my face, and they tried to yank me from the truck. But they weren't expecting someone with twenty years' military experience to be their first pull."

"Of course not," Tom says with a soft laugh. He can picture it, actually. Dirty air, foreign faces covered in scarves to avoid breathing the dust, Mitchell's cupped hands pulling one's head down so he can lift his knee at the same time and smash the guy's nose. "So what, you took out the entire crew single-handed?"

"Not quite." He pauses to drink some wine. "More like one of them gave me a black eye before I managed to give him one, and one on the other side of the car hit Zimbrano with a taser before they made off with both my briefcase and Foster's."

Tom raises an eyebrow. "Some sort of lo-fi corporate espionage?"

"We think so."

"And this was really worth hiring me?" It sounds to Tom like Pete can take care of himself. "Unless more came of it."

"The first letter came a week later."

He drums his fingertips briefly across the table, nodding. "Holding your property for ransom, I'd guess? What did the letter say?"

"Three million dollars, and our stolen property would be returned."

"What was in the briefcases?"

Mitchell shrugs one shoulder. "Not anything I thought was all that significant at the time. Profit projections for the commercial branch. Some reports from the engineering division about new alloys that I barely understand myself. Preliminary - very preliminary plans - for a fighter jet that we were thinking about eventually - quite a ways in the future, I mean - putting up for Defense Department bid."

"So out of those, your masterminds could have been after the alloys or after the fighter jet plans."

"That was what the Board thought, too. Ultimately they voted that the fighter plans were the more likely target, as minimal as I thought they were. And since a good portion of what we've drafted so far was based on my idea, they also voted _me_ to be the likely human target. Someone had to tell those guys what we were carrying, and where to find us."

Pete picks up his fork again and takes another bite of beef that must be cold by now. "And now you're here, and you're all caught up."

"Metcalf never mentioned any of the espionage stuff," Tom says, nudging his plate away and reaching for his water glass. He looks at it a moment, thinking, before taking a sip. "Does he think it's inside, and that he's protecting the company by playing this as though you're the only target?"

"Probably. Although you know, you don't need to play detective. The Board hired a few of those, too. They think they've got a few angles, but apparently my safety requires they not tell me all of those details."

"Mm-hmm. So really I'm just here to make sure you don't get fucking clobbered by a rusty AK again," Tom says. 

"Exactly."

*

"You know I could have been a great baseball player," Pete says, leaning back in his chair, wineglass swinging from his fingertips. It's nearly nine and darkness is pressing in on the windows. There's a dim sound of traffic, and church bells chime every fifteen minutes.

" _When_ could you have been a great baseball player?"

"When I was seventeen." 

Tom can picture that without much trouble at all. Teenage Pete Mitchell in baseball whites, summer sun beating down on him, tapping a bat against the toe of his cleats to knock off the mud. A peeling sunburn on his nose despite the ballcap. "First baseman?" he asks.

"Shortstop."

"So what happened?" he continues, even though he knows the answer.

"The Navy happened."

Tom sets his own wineglass back on the table. Half a glass after dinner was enough, just to be safe. He watches Mitchell reach for the new bottle he'd had brought up. Tom says, "You know, I sort of like the idea that in some alternate universe, there's a version of you who's on the level with Robin Yount."

"Playing for the Dodgers," Pete laughs. 

"In your dreams, Mav." He checks his watch; it's nearly nine. "All right, you still have reading to do, and all that wine to drink. I'll be next door if you need me." 

"You're leaving? And here I thought we were just starting to have interesting conversations."

"You know Mitchell Aviation _pays_ me to spend time with you, right?" Tom asks, as dryly as he possibly can. 

Pete grins at him, the wide one that lights up his entire face. He sprawls a little looser in the chair. "Then you can spend a little more."

Tom flips him off, then reaches for one of the folders Pete's supposed to be reading. It's got a stylised schematic on the front. Inside are neatly clipped papers with rows of numbers. He closes it again and slides it back across the table. "Yeah, that's beyond me."

Pete finishes his current glass of wine. "Cost breakdowns. If we buy half a million yards of the wire used in that model, it's this much money per yard, this much money per plane. If we buy a million yards, it's that much, and so on and so forth.."

"I don't need to know how much the wiring costs to fly a plane," Tom says. 

"No, you don't." Pete pulls the folder closer and opens it, and his face grows serious and interested as he reads. After a minute, Tom gets up from his chair and pokes around the room. He finds an English-language newspaper and settles onto the brocade-upholstered sofa. Occasionally he can hear Pete muttering things under his breath, the scratch of a pen, the liquid noise of wine being poured. 

He's nearly finished the last section of the paper - business, something he'd normally ignore - when the pen comes sailing past him. "I can't look at these numbers anymore," Pete groans.

"Because you're drunk, Mav."

"It's a bottle of wine. I'm not drunk."

There's a loud popping noise outside, and Tom is on his feet in an instant, picking up his handgun from where he'd left it on the table. Pete also stands up, and Tom elbows him out of the way, pushing Pete behind him. "Don't go near the glass, you asshole," he says sharply, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to the window, then glancing out. The street is empty, pools of lamplight every few meters. 

"Car backfiring, maybe?"

"Maybe." He still doesn't like it. "How about you take your reading into the bedroom now?"

There's a window in the bedroom, but it faces a fenced-in courtyard, which any shooter would attempt to avoid. Too easy to get trapped in it. Tom feels Pete's hand slide over his hip, warm even though fabric. "How about you come with me?"

"You're drunk," Tom repeats, still eyeing the street. 

"For the last time, I am not drunk. Ice. Don't you want to finish what we never even got to start?"

He looks over his shoulder at Pete. "Don't you ever think that maybe it was better we didn't fuck around?" he asks, staring Pete directly in the eyes. "That maybe we avoided a whole dirty mess?"

Pete's expression is serious, no trace of amusement. "We're not in the Navy anymore, Tom."

Tom turns and leans in, watches Pete's eyes drop closed. Presses his mouth softly to Pete's, licks at his lips. He tastes like wine. Smells like wine. "You've had too much to drink," Tom whispers, dragging the backs of his knuckles lightly down the line of Pete's jaw before he steps back and away. "I'll be in my room."

*

Tom jerks off in the shower in the morning, thinking about Pete Mitchell's hands and mouth and face; he sags against the tiled wall when he comes. An hour later, he's listening to Pete argue with a different guy from Telespazio. Two hours after that, they're boarding the Mitchell Aviation jet, bound for first New York City, then San Diego.

"What happened to Campbell?" Tom asks, as Pete pulls the stairs up and latches the door closed. 

"He's flying commercial to a conference in Osaka, so it's only us." Pete raps on the pilots' door, says he's ready when they are.

Tom sits down and buckles in for takeoff, leaning back against the plush seat. "Still surprised you don't insist on piloting this machine."

"Eight hours across the Atlantic? Not unless I have to."

That's fair. He watches Pete slide his mobile phone into a built-in cradle, then strap in to one of the other seats. "Did you bring enough reading material?"

Pete grins, the wide one. "Oh, we're not reading."

"Mav," Tom groans, as the jet starts down the runway. "You're not fucking serious."

"I'm very serious," Pete replies.

Tom's pressed back against the seat, but compared to what he used to fly, this is barely any pressure. The jet shudders as the wheels come up off the pavement. He can nearly feel Pete's gaze on him, and he feels hot. The jet climbs higher. 

"You have got to be kidding," Tom says, when the plane levels out and Pete slides from his seat to walk over and nudge Tom's knees apart.

"You know once I set my mind to something there's no stopping me." Pete undoes Tom's seatbelt buckle. 

"Aren't you a platinum member of the Mile High Club by now?"

"You know I thought about this," Pete says, the words not quite forming a question. 

Tom doesn't move. "Fucking me on a plane?"

"Fucking you in general." The vulgarity seems weird from Pete's mouth. "On a plane, on an aircraft carrier, in a hotel." 

Tom would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it as well. "In a hotel, we'd have a bed."

"You didn't want to fuck when we were in the hotel." Pete's smile has an edge, sharp. He slides his hand downward, pressure against Tom's groin, and Tom grinds forward despite his better judgement. He cups his hand around the back of Pete's neck, then slides his fingers up into Pete's hair and pulls, just slightly. 

"What if I don't want to fuck now?"

"I'd say you're lying." Pete increases the pressure of his palm against Tom's rapidly hardening cock. 

Tom stands up then, manhandles Pete none too smoothly from the single-person seating area to the longer bench seats along the back of the jet, closing the divider behind them. He pushes Pete down onto the cushions, pretending to ignore Pete's smug grin. "Take your clothes off, then," he says, aiming for a casual tone. He thinks he succeeds. Mostly.

Pete strips slowly, as though he thinks Tom needs enticing. Tom does not. But Pete with his slacks halfway down his thighs, and his briefs then halfway down his hips is a beautifully dishevelled sight. His cock bobs up against the flat plane of his stomach.

"You really are gorgeous, fuck," Tom breathes, and Pete grins, runs a hand through his hair before he stretches.

"What are we doing," Tom asks. It's not really a question. He skims a palm down Pete's stomach to feel the muscles jump.

 _What we should have done years ago_ , he knows Pete is thinking. But neither of them say it. He touches Pete's cock then, with light fingertips. "I could just jerk you off, then leave you here," he says. He punctuates it with a grin.

"You could, but you won't." Pete's fingers wrap around his wrist and squeeze. Then he pulls Tom's hand up and licks his fingers.

"Jesus, Mav," Tom breathes. Desire throbs low in his belly. "Why the fuck am I still dressed?"

Pete rolls his eyes and starts unbuckling Tom's belt. "At least get your dick out." 

It's messy, rutting against each other while kissing - also sloppy - and Tom finds he doesn't mind streatching out on the stupid bench with Pete above him, grinding their dicks together. He squeezes Pete's hip, hard. "Do you ever think about it?" he asks between kisses, moving his leg so that they can achieve even more contact. He nips down Pete's jawline to his neck, then sucks hard at the place where the pulse is the strongest. He feels Pete shudder, hips jerking. 

"About what? What we almost got up to in the Gulf?"

"Yeah." He slides a hand up into Pete's hair again, pulls harder than before. Not enough to hurt, but Pete's head goes back with it. Tom scrapes his teeth lightly over Pete's neck and feels, more than hears, Pete's groan. 

The airplane shudders once and they both freeze for a split-second, then Pete starts laughing. "You're the one that got your cock out on a plane," Tom says, "but if we went down, we'd be in so many pieces no one would ever know we had our pants down."

"I can always trust you to point out the best outcomes," Pete replies. He wraps his hand around Tom's dick and squeezes, and a hot flush of pleasure rolls up Tom's spine. "Yeah, I think about it. Probably more than I should, over the years."

*

New York City is mostly dark, but not silent, when they land. The hired car rolls down semi-empty streets toward their hotel. Tom watches Pete look out the window. "Are you going to sleep?" he asks after a while, when he judges they're about ten minutes from their destination.

"I should. I've got meetings from nine to noon, then from two to four, then five to eight." Pete rubs a hand over his face. "Shit. Who the fuck scheduled that."

"Probably you," Tom replies, but he presses the back of his hand against the side of Pete's thigh just the same.

"I need a vacation," Pete mutters, then smothers a yawn. The collar of his shirt gapes slightly, exposing the red splotches courtesy of Tom's mouth. The sight of it makes Tom's face hot. Oblivious, Pete asks, "If I took a vacation, would you come with me?"

"Would that be in a paid capacity, Mav, or solely for company?"

"Mm, I'm not sure. Depends how long this shit drags on." 

The car slows, then stops for a light. Tom keeps an eye on the mostly empty intersection until they're moving again. "I doubt anyone would try anything right here," Pete says, clearly watching his gaze move from one sector to another outside. 

"You don't know that for sure," Tom points out. The hotel is visible up ahead now. "This would be a good time to make a move. A lot less witnessess than usual. Less people to call the NYPD, or just yell for help."

"We called ahead to the hotel. They've been instructed contact the police if we don't show up by a certain time." Pete glances at his watch. "Which is approaching, but so are we."

"That's good in theory, but what if we'd been ambushed right outside of the airport. You'd be half an hour with the kidnappers - just for example's sake - by the time the concierge made the call. More than half an hour."

"That scenario assumes you don't save me," Pete replies, hand quickly squeezing Tom's thigh. 

The car glides smoothly up to the curb in front of the hotel, putting an end to this line of conversation, and the bellhop deals with their luggage. Which is mostly Pete's luggage, since Tom's been relying on hotel laundry service since about three days into this job.

Pete checks them in while Tom eyes the lobby. Like the street, it's quiet this hour of the morning. In the elevator, he watches Pete smother a series of yawns. "You could have slept more on the plane," he says.

"Then I'd be even more fucked up. Christ, how'd we ever manage in the Navy?"

Tom can't help but laugh. "Right?"

This set of hotel rooms has a connecting door, and when Tom opens his side to check the security, he finds Pete's propped his open already. He leans in the empty frame and watches Pete as he moves about the room, half undressed, reading something on his phone. It takes a minute before he even notices Tom is there. "Ice, what the fuck."

"You're the one not paying attention." He gestures at Pete's phone. "Would you put that down and take a goddamned nap, so I can take a goddamned nap, so you can go to your godforsaken meetings in... five hours."

Pete grins. "Yeah, you're right. Get in the bed, then."

Tom gives him the most unimpressed look he can dredge up at this terrible hour. Mav raises his brows, then cuts his gaze to the bed, then back to Tom. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Tom mutters, and leaves his shoes in the doorway. 

"You know this is a bad idea," he murmurs, when they're stretched out, only their arms brushing. The sheets are crisp and Tom can feel his body sinking into the soft mattress, relaxing despite himself. 

Pete's hand settles lightly on his hip and he whispers back, "Only if you let it be."

*

The New York meetings go fine, or so it seems to Tom. He sits outside the conference room and listens through the door to the rise and fall of Pete's voice as he talks about financial matters Tom barely understands. But it's fine, he doesn't need to know the complete financial rundown of Mitchell Aviation to sit here and watch for threats.

Their next flight leaves at midnight, back to California and the main office. Tom barely stays awake to eat a sandwich from the airport lounge, nearly dozes off during the shaky takeoff, and fall asleep the second he stretches out on one of the bench seats after they're at altitude. 

He wakes up after an hour to see Pete sitting next to his head reading some sort of report. "How many hours a day are you spending on work," he mumbles, the words sleepy, stretching his arm out to knock his fist against Pete's shoulder.

"Most of them," Pete answers, without looking up from whatever he's reading.

"You have other employees, don't they cover some of this?"

Now Mav looks over. His expression is one Tom's never seen before. "It's my responsibility," he says, "to ensure success."

Tom sits up, rubs his hands over his aching face. "At what cost?" he mutters between his fingers.

"I get enough sleep," Pete says, the words dry, like he can't believe Tom is giving him shit about this.

"Not just that, but this whole people trying to hurt you thing." He stands up and goes to the small refrigerator, takes out a bottle of water. He waves it at Pete, who shakes his head. "Corporate espionage to the point of bodily harm is really fucking rare, you know."

"I know. But I need to let the actual investigators work that piece, and focus on actually running the company."

Tom doesn't actually have anything to say to that, so he stretches his legs out in front of him and closes his eyes again, not to sleep, just to rest. He can hear Pete turning pages at a slow, but steady rate, the occasional scratch of a pencil. It's been years since he was in a plane as often as he's been the last few weeks, but Tom has to admit in the air is where he feels the most at ease. 

"Ice," Pete says some time later. 

"Yeah?"

"If I did take some time off, would you come with me?"

Tom rolls his head to the side to look at Mav. "And I'll ask this again: In a professional capacity, or personal?"

"You know, I don't know. I suppose that would depend on if someone's still trying to steal my company's hard work." Pete tucks the pencil behind his ear, then leans his head back against the back of the seat. 

"It's mostly your work, isn't it," Tom says, the words not a question. He's ninety percent sure what the answer will be. 

"If they're after the jet plans, then yes."

He'd flown most of the best the Navy had to offer, Tom figures, so it's not the wildest possibility in the world that he'd figure out how to improve upon it. "Who knows about the plans?"

"Metcalf, all of the Board, Wright and Pearson in experimental engineering, couple of the guys in the concept department, Campbell. Probably some other people I'm forgetting at present." Pete's hand comes down to rest on Tom's knee. 

"So there's a pool of suspects."

"Excuse me?"

"Someone had to say something, Mav," Tom murmurs. "Maybe just in passing to someone from another company."

"No one at MA would do that."

"I'm not saying one of them did it on purpose."

Pete's thumb moves in small circles. He doesn't say anything for so long that Tom thinks he's gone back to his reading. When he does speak again, it's to say, "So what are your feelings on Hawaii?"

*

Tom's phone rings at two in the morning. He rolls over in the hotel bed and gropes across the nightstand for it. "It's the dead of night, Mav, this better be good," he mutters into it once he registers the name on the screen.

"Thought you might like to know that three men just tried to break into my house," Pete says. He sounds wide awake. There's dim noise in the background. "But they failed."

Tom's awake in an instant, adrenaline bitter on his tongue. "I'll be there shortly."

"The police are here, you don't need-"

"I'll be there," Tom repeats, and hangs up on him. Spends a minute thinking about logistics. Then he calls down to the night concierge. "Could you call me a car, please, thank you."

He gets dressed and packs the few things he's spread around the room. That's enough of this staying in a hotel while Pete stays in his house alone, gated community or not. Clearly someone had gotten around whatever poor security measures were in place. By the time he's finished and taken the elevator down to the lobby, the taxi has pulled up. Someone from Mitchell Aviation can settle the bill later. 

The patrol car at the gate lets him through once he shows identification. All the lights are on at Pete's house and there's another occupied patrol car at the curb. "Right here is fine," he tells the cab driver.

Pete opens the door before Tom can even knock. He's in an old Navy t-shirt, and the shadows under his eyes look like bruises. "Before you say anything, I had the alarm on. They activated it when they smashed the back window, and by the time I got down there with my gun, they were running across the neighbor's yard. Three men, judging from their build, all in black."

"Uh-huh," Tom replies, before he nudges Pete back against the protected wall and kisses him hard. Then he says, "Glad you're okay. I'm going to stay here from now on," and goes to look at the back door. Someone's taped cardboard up over the broken window on both sides of the frame. "The alarm is on again?"

"Yes."

Tom takes his bag upstairs to the spare room. "What about the cops, are they doing anything?" he calls back over his shoulder.

"I doubt it." Pete's followed him up, and is rubbing his hands over his arms. "There really isn't anything to go on."

"You mean, you didn't tell the locals about the stolen plans or the ransom attempt." 

"No."

Tom sits down on the edge of the bed and removes his shoes. "Were you the one who cleaned up the glass and taped the door?"

"Yes," Pete says, with a startled laugh. "And I had a bourbon, and the Glock's sharing the bed." 

"I suppose that's a start." Tom reaches out, reels Pete in by the waist of his sweatpants, clearly thrown on as the closest piece of clothing before the police arrived. "I really am glad you're okay," he says, softer, his hands resting on Pete's hips. "Think you can sleep? Tomorrow you need to get the company investigators here, find out how far they've gotten."

Pete takes a breath, closing his eyes. "Can I sleep? Probably not. You should join me."

"You need to sleep, not think about sex."

"Come on." Pete's hands close over his, and then he's stepping back, pulling Tom up along with him. 

"Mav, seriously." Tom does his best to hold his ground, but it's very late, and he's tired in the way that comes after the adrenaline has faded - he's not twenty-five anymore, and able to easily ride it out. "Pete."

"Come on," Pete says again, and Tom follows him into the master bedroom. He's been in here before, during the initial security sweep, but the bed had been made and everything in perfect place then. Now the bed is rumpled, the covers clearly thrown back in an instant. There's a glass on the bedside table with an inch of bourbon in it, and next to it, a stack of several books. A robe is crumpled at the bottom of the bed, tossed over one corner of the mattress with the bottom part pooling on the carpet. 

He strips down to his boxers and folds his clothes carefully over the rack where a pair of Pete's slacks are thrown, then shoves Pete in the shoulder. "Finish your drink and go to sleep," he says, pointing first at the glass, then the bed. "Seven o'clock will be here very fucking soon."

*

Metcalf and half a dozen people Tom doesn't know arrive the next morning, all looking severe. Two of them are introduced as private investigators. They all take a seat around Pete's large dining room table. Tom catches Pete's eye and points to the front door, then draws a circle, indicating he's going to check the perimeter. Pete nods. The shadows under his eyes aren't quite as dark as last night, but his expression is pinched, and his posture tense.

"So, how did it go?" Tom asks, much later, when every single person from Mitchell Aviation who could possibly need to speak to Mav has been to the house - and then some, in Tom's opinion - and the two of them are standing in the kitchen and picking at the remains of the deli platters someone managed to get catered on short notice. "Who wants to torpedo your company, surely someone has some guesses."

Pete frowns. He pushes a slice of tomato around the platter with his finger, then frowns deeper and wipes his hand off on a napkin. "There are a dozen competing theories but no hard evidence of anything, other than whatever you call the problem in Dubai."

Tom also frowns at that.

"Thing is, stealing the jet plans… if whoever it is _builds that plane_ , we're going to know it was our design, and the whole thing is possibly one of the stupidest things I've heard in my life, and I was in the Navy."

Tom huffs a laugh and eats the shaved turkey out of one of the tiny sandwiches. "So you're back to the thought that it's not the jet plans after all."

"I am of the opinion that this is not about the jet plans, yes, you are correct." Mav leans his elbows on the countertop and presses his palms over his eyes. "This whole thing is just… fucking out of control, honestly."

"Men stop your convoy in Dubai, rough you and another employee up a little, steal a briefcase. Then different men try to break into your house, but are quickly deterred by the security alarm. Someone knows you live here, but not that the house has a security system? Or someone knows you have the security system but the whole idea was just to scare you, not actually to break in?"

"There's nothing work-related here except the few things I bring home, and I don't take anything related to the jet plans out of the office after what happened."

"So… likely they were just trying to scare you. Which leaves the question of - scare you into what?" Tom wipes his own fingers off on a napkin, then covers the tray again and slides it into an empty space in Pete's fridge. "You want a bourbon? Come on."

He pours them each a glass, then gestures towards the living room when Mav doesn't seem inclined to move in any particular direction. 

"Whoever it is, they have to know I don't scare easily," Pete says, slowly like he's thinking it out as he says it, walking ahead of Tom into the living room and taking a seat on the couch. Unlike the formal dining room where people had met today, this room is clearly where he spends his time at home; there's a coaster in the right place on the small table that's snug up to the arm of the couch, and television remotes lined up within arm's reach of that seat. 

Tonight he doesn't reach for the remotes, instead cradling his glass in both hands, clearly trying to put together the pieces of how and why. Tom sits down on the opposite end of the sofa. "You know you have to seriously consider the possibility that it's someone inside Mitchell Aviation."

Pete nods. "Yeah." 

Neither of them say anything for a while. Then Pete sets his glass down on the table and says, "All right, I'm done worrying about this for tonight. Let's… I don't know, watch a movie or something, get drunk, mess around."

"You can get drunk if you want, but I'm still on the clock," Tom reminds him, "so this one is enough for me."

Pete makes a gentle scoffing noise and stands up, leaves the room. He returns a few seconds later with the bottle, which he sets on the side table. "There, it's not even by you."

"Thanks," Tom says dryly.

Pete resettles, closer this time, and turns on the television. He flips through the premium channels until there's something with explosions and car chases, although Tom's got no idea what it is. Pete slumps lower against the cushions, before he leans against Tom. 

"I won't ask if you're okay, but…"

Pete waves a hand at the screen as though Tom is interrupting his viewing of this completely serious movie, then lays down on the couch with his head in Tom's lap. "Honestly, Mav," Tom mutters, but he sets his hand gently on Pete's neck.

*

He corrals Pete up to the master bedroom a few hours later, still early enough that Pete can make up for the sleep he didn't get the night before. "I like that you're here," Pete says, the words loose and slurry with bourbon, the scent of it strong on his breath. He wraps his arms around Tom's waist.

 _Don't say something you'll regret when you're sober, Mav,_ Tom thinks. 

"I think I'm too drunk to even feel you up," Pete sighs. He leans heavy against Tom's body. 

Tom cups a hand around the back of Pete's neck and squeezes. "Normally I'd give you a hard time for that, but given the last couple days, you get a pass. Come on, in bed. Sleep it off."

"Mmm." 

Tom laughs at that. He readjusts the blankets and maneuvers Pete into the bed, avoiding Pete's sleepily sneaky hands. "I'm going to go check the doors one more time and then I'll be back," he says, yanking the sheet up to Pete's shoulders. 

"Don't threaten me," Pete mutters. He gropes Tom's thigh once more. 

Tom goes through the house, making sure it's as secure as possible given the cardboard that's still functioning as a window until it's replaced tomorrow. It's quiet and still - this isn't the sort of neighborhood that's busy at night - and his gaze catches on various things around the rooms that clearly speak to this being Pete's house. His ribbons in a shadowbox on a wall, along with his father's funeral flag. In the study, there's some art that looks Arabic in design, dimly reminding Tom of the geometric designs painted on a mosque he'd had the chance to visit, in a North African city he can no longer remember the name of. 

He finds suit jackets hung on the backs of chairs and brings them up to the bedroom. Pete looks as though he's asleep. Tom hangs the jackets in the closet, then takes off his own slacks and polo, folds them neatly on the low dresser that stretches opposite the bed. He lies down next to Pete. 

An arm slides over his stomach. "Go to sleep, seriously," Tom whispers, and Mav's grip tightens briefly. 

Above him, the ceiling is a stark white, but in the barest nighttime light through the closed curtains it looks a smoky blue. Tom stares up at it, willing his body to relax. In his head, he turns over all the details of this strange mystery. What a person could gain from discrediting Pete with the company. Who could benefit from scaring him, even hurting him. When they might make another move. 

Why Tom just got into bed with Pete again tonight, instead of taking the guest room like he'd told himself earlier he would. Why the weight of Pete against his side feels so comfortable. 

Eventually, he falls asleep.

*

They're in Pete's office at Mitchell Aviation headquarters. On one wall is a blown-up aerial view of the bay, and on the other, large blueprints for various planes. Pete's tapping his pen on the desk, not looking at the pile of paperwork there or at the machinist's report on parts for the new jet that his secretary has just delivered.

"What if I pretend to shut down the project," he says to Tom.

Tom's been browsing the blueprints of the office building, labeling weak points. There are a lot. "Which project?"

"Any of them. All of them. Until I hit his sore spot." 

Tom looks up. The expression on Pete's face says his mind is racing, sorting things out, moving a piece of the puzzle here and a piece of the puzzle there until the whole thing starts to come into focus. Tom remembers that same look on his face when they'd been brought in to test the simulators for whatever experimental jet it had been at the time; Tom can't remember the exact designation.

"You think you might know who it is," he says quietly.

"Talking with all the PIs yesterday…" Pete flips the pen up in the air, then catches it. "When this was my father's company, we were almost exclusively military contracts. From parts all the way to complete designs. When Kenwood took over for that period before I came onboard, he let go of some of the military contracts in favor of working towards safer civilian aircraft. Couple of the old guard guys really grumbled about it." 

His brows draw together as he speaks. "I remember Kenwood saying that they thought my father would be spinning in his grave to not support the military."

"Even though at the time MA was still, what? Seventy-five percent military contracts?"

"At least. Probably more." 

"Most of those holdouts have to have retired by now."

The corner of Pete's mouth quirks in something that's not entirely a smile. "Most, but not all. Maybe… maybe one of them thinks this is their last hurrah." 

He flips the pen again, then shakes his head. "I don't know for sure, I'm just spitballing."

"Better than doing nothing," Tom replies. He checks his watch. It's past noon, and Pete has some sort of meeting at two. Marketing. "I don't know about you, Mav, but I need a sandwich or something."

"Yeah, I don't need my stomach growling all through an hour of presentations." 

There's a deli a few buildings down. Tom offers to go himself and pick up whatever Pete wants, but Pete just shakes his head. "I need to get out of here for at least half an hour."

It's warm enough that Pete rolls up the sleeves of his button-down and loosens his tie a ridiculous amount before they're even out the Mitchell Aviation doors. Tom watches as he turns his face up into the sun. 

"Mav," he says quietly once they've purchased lunch and are sitting at one of the scattered tables, Pete with his back to the wall and Tom with a full view of the deli's single front door. "You think it might be Metcalf?"

Tom's gone through the board, narrowing the possibilities down. Metcalf is the only real old guard left, the last of the board that were both former military and served with the elder Mitchell, and he knows Pete and Metcalf haven't always seen eye to eye - his own hiring is proof of that. 

Pete nods. "There's been a few times in the last couple years where he's been almost cartoonishly vocal about some of the civilian projects - questioning why we were devoting more of certain resources to those projects, versus the military ones, stuff like that. At first I didn't think anything of it - the older he's gotten, the harder he finds change. Not like my father wasn't the same way."

He nudges the pickle around on the waxed paper. The bell on the door jangles and Tom watches the guy who walks in go up to the counter. There's an odd shape under his suit jacket. Tom reaches under the table and lays a hand on Pete's arm, stilling him, and tilts his head slightly towards the guy in the jacket. 

"Who would be that stupid," Pete whispers. 

"People are stupid, Mav, especially for money." 

The odd shape is definitely a gun; Tom sees it flash in the holster when the guy pulls his wallet from his back pocket to pay. But then he slides his wallet back into the pocket and grabs his deli bag without so much as a glance towards Pete. 

"Maybe an off-duty," Pete says, as the bell jingles again as the guy leaves. He steals a potato chip from Tom's bag and raises his eyebrows. "Maybe you're just paranoid."

"Maybe you got hit on the head with a rusty AK too many times." 

Pete just laughs at that. He balls up the wrapper from his sandwich, then says, "You know what, fuck it. I'm skipping out on the rest of the afternoon. Marketing can live without me for today. Lindsey's in there, she can handle it." 

"What do you want to do instead?" 

What Pete wants to do is walk on the beach with a cup of ice cream, a twist Tom never saw coming. "I'm glad I can surprise you, Ice," Pete says, when Tom mentions it. He turns the spoon upside-down in his mouth for a second. "Sometimes I need the reminder that there's more to life than board meetings, and company flights, and room service sandwiches at midnight because I'm still working."

Tom has to admit, it's nice, just walking slowly across the sand. He looks out at the water, almost sparkling in the bright sunlight, looking almost impossibly blue. Even bluer than Pete's eyes.

*

The mood in the room feels slightly cold to Tom, as he takes his now-normal chair in the corner, with good lines of sight to both exit doors and Pete's place at the head of the conference table. The various department heads are settling in; Metcalf is sitting to Pete's left with his soft-sided briefcase and a pile of files in front of him.

They've discussed this strategy over several days now; if the saboteur is indeed Metcalf, this should draw him out. 

The department heads go around the table, giving updates as to the latest developments. After fifteen minutes, control returns to Pete, and he looks up evenly from his notes. "I've done a great deal of thinking over the last few weeks," he says. "About our current role in aviation in America. About what our future role might be." 

He pauses, looking at each of the employees in turn. Tom keeps an eye on Metcalf. 

"I'm terminating the Blue Viking project," Pete says. His voice is level; he says it like he says every other business thing Tom's heard him say the last few months. "I've decided that this is no longer a path that Mitchell Aviation will be exploring -"

"Is this what your father would have wanted?" Metcalf interrupts calmly, and Tom sees several other heads in the room swivel to stare at him, on the opposite side of the table from Pete. 

As casually as he can, Tom stands up, leaning against the wall. 

Pete's expression doesn't so much as flicker. "He's dead, and has no say here. We're tabling the fighters for now, so that R&D can focus on the new alloys.This is about safer aircraft for civilians, Mike, not about how many missiles we can fit on a jet."

"Duke would never," Mecalf says coldly. The calmness is fading from his words and Tom can see his hand twitch. The other people around the table seem to be recoiling a little; Tom sees at least one shaking her head slightly. Metcalf continues, "He believed in the might of the American military, of the _strength_ -"

"We're a civilian aviation company. We're not fighting anyone's wars."

Metcalf is shaking his head. His face is now flushing, turning a bright scarlet. Tom edges a little closer. Metcalf brought his briefcase with him into the room and Tom doesn't trust him not to have a weapon; not an old soldier like him. 

"All this humanitarian bullshit," Metcalf continues; Tom sees his hands clench into fists. "All the new innovations - that alloy -"

He stops, now completely red in the face. "Creating things for people that don't deserve it, with your father's company, Maverick… he would be so disappointed in where you've taken us. You should have listened to me, I tried to tell you -"

"I don't have to listen to you at all." 

"- months ago. The board -"

"I'm the majority shareholder, Mike, and last night I bought out Zoller and Swanson. You can't have the board remove me anymore."

Metcalf slams his hands down on the tabletop and a few people jump, edging even further back. Tom moves a little closer to Metcalf. He knows the shareholder buyout is a fiction that Pete set up not an hour ago with the board members in question, but clearly Metcalf believes it. "You little fucker," Metcalf hisses. "I knew, months ago. I knew you'd do your best to run this company in the ground, and I tried to stop you. But you refused to give in, even after Dubai." 

More people are inching slowly backwards from the table. Pete still looks unflappable, but his eyes have narrowed at Metcalf. Tom's close enough that he can see a bead of sweat sliding down Metcalf's temple now. "What do you mean, after Dubai?" Tom asks.

Metcalf thrusts his hand into his bag. There's the barest flash of metal, and then Tom is pinning Metcalf's arm to the table, and Pete's pinning the other arm behind the old man's back. Someone screams sharply. "Call the police," Tom says to the closest employee, who nods with wide eyes and runs out of the room. "The rest of you, get out. But don't leave the building. You're all witnesses."

The flash of metal was a Smith & Wesson, the small, snub-nose kind. Easily concealed in Metcalf's soft briefcase. "Jesus, Mike," Pete says, leaning down to be on eye-level with him. "What the fuck for? Because you're pissed I don't run the company like my old man did? He was a fucking relic. A product of a bygone era."

"He was a great man," Metcalf growls, struggling hard against their combined grips. "You don't know shit, Maverick."

Tom hears the police sirens, drawing closer.

*

"Well, what now?" Pete asks, after they've watched Metcalfe being lead away from the building and placed in the police cruiser, expression still defiant. Tom knows he doesn't mean about the extortion.

"You know my company is actually based in San Diego." He reaches out with his foot and kicks Mav lightly in the shin. 

"Yeah?"

"I suppose at least now I can stop worrying about the moral conflict of sleeping with you while I'm getting paid to protect you," Tom says, keeping his tone light.

"Would you like me to keep paying for it?" Pete gives him a cocky, brilliant grin. "In that event you'd have to do what I ask, you know."

"Since when do you ask for anything," Tom mutters, flipping him the bird but not meaning any of it at all. Pete socks him in the arm. 

They stand looking out the window at the place where the police had been for a few more minutes. Then Pete says, "I could probably leave early today, what do you think?" and starts walking towards his office without giving Tom a chance to reply. 

At Pete's house, he flips open his laptop and spins it to show Tom what's on the screen. "I did actually mean it about Hawaii," he says. He's pulled up what looks to Tom like a secluded rental home - green, shaded by koa and coconut palms, a glimpse of sandy beach. 

"A nice quiet vacation would do you good."

"With you," Pete adds, grinning.

Tom grins back. "Are you paying?"

"I guess."

"Could be nice, going somewhere with you and not having to watch for weapons."

Pete's grin shifts into something a little softer. "You'd do that anyway."

"Suppose I would," Tom chuckles. He leans down over Pete's shoulder, presses a kiss to Pete's jaw. "You think maybe he wanted to get caught? He was the idiot who hired me, after all."

"Well, the board hired you. I found out later - as in yesterday - that he voted against it and was overruled, then he tried to make it look good when you showed up." Pete turns his head and brushes his mouth over Tom's. "Suppose he thought he could be quicker than you."

"No such thing." Tom nudges the laptop away from them, careful about it, then reaches for Pete's belt to tug him up out of the chair. "You need a decent meal, a strong drink, and a good night's sleep for once."

"What are you, my keeper?"

Tom makes a show of looking at his watch. "For another… four hours, if you plan on paying me for the full day."

Pete takes Tom's wrist, then unbuckles the watch and slides it into his pocket. "When you say your company is based in San Diego, do you mean you have an actual office?"

"If by office, you mean a room in my house."

Pete meets his gaze, eyes dark. "House? And you just, what - locked it up for a few weeks to follow me around the world?"

"That's the job, Maverick," Tom replies quietly. He cups Pete's jaw, kisses him softly. "One of my neighbors keeps an eye on it, though."

Pete leans against him, slotting a thigh between Tom's. "You could have stayed there."

"No, I couldn't - it's in Skyline, and the hotel I took was only five minutes from here. Why are you so interested suddenly?"

"I don't want to go another fifteen years, Ice," Pete says, his voice quiet but steady. "You married to this place in Skyline? I've got three extra rooms here I could donate to Kazansky Private Security."

"Donate, huh?"

"Or you could probably have your choice of offices in the MA building, if you wanted." 

Pete sounds very serious about this, and Tom spreads a hand wide over his chest. "Mav," he murmurs. 

"Am I going too fast for you?" He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Tom presses a kiss high up on Pete's cheekbone. The skin there is hot against his lips. "No," he admits, because the last thing he wants is to go another decade without laying eyes on Pete Mitchell. "But maybe we should do a few things together where we're not watching for someone to take aim at you." 

"Mmm, you're not wrong there." Pete's hands come to rest on his hips. Then his stomach growls and he laughs; this time the amusement reaches his eyes. "I suppose one of those should be dinner."

"I told you," Tom says, but he waits for Pete to let go first before following him into the kitchen.


End file.
